Behind Every Lie A Bitter Truth

There are ninety-nine Hermès Birkins sitting in my walk-in closet.

To the world, it' s a collection worth millions. To me, it' s a tally of ninety-nine times my husband, Harris, betrayed me.

Each bag was a silent apology I accepted to keep our hollow marriage alive.

But the hundredth betrayal wasn't fixed with crocodile leather.

On the anniversary of my mother's death, I tracked Harris to my family' s private cemetery.

He wasn't alone. Jessica, his "first love," was there, standing over the empty plot reserved for my living father, right next to my mother' s grave.

They were digging a hole.

Jessica smirked, holding a velvet box containing her dead cat and a plaque that read To Arvel, my eternal companion.

"It' s just a cat, Cecily," she laughed, tossing her hair.

"Don't be so dramatic. Your father won't mind the company. Besides, it shows who Harris really listens to."

For years, I accepted the bags and the lies. But desecrating my family's sacred ground?

The submissive wife died in that moment.

I walked toward them, clutching the evidence that would destroy Jessica' s life and shatter Harris' s world.

"Dig it up," I commanded, my voice colder than the grave.

"Or I will bury you both right here."

Chapter 1

Cecily McNeil POV:

The ninety-ninth Hermès Birkin sat on my vanity, a silent, exquisite testament to a lie. Its pristine leather, the scent of money and exclusivity, was meant to be a balm, a quiet apology for a wound too deep for any price tag. But all I felt was the familiar hollow ache, a cavern in my chest where emotion used to be. My fingers traced the cold clasp, the weight of it heavy, yet utterly without meaning. It was an echo of betrayal, each bag a brick in the wall he had built between us, solidifying the emptiness.

The bedroom door swung open. Harris Shepherd stood there, a vision of polished charm and effortless wealth. His smile, usually a weapon, fell flat in the heavy air of my silence. He wore the expensive suit of a man who owned half the city, but in my eyes, he was just a boy, perpetually trying to buy back a piece of himself he' d already lost.

"Cecily? What are you doing up?" His voice was smooth, too smooth. It barely brushed the surface of the quiet rage simmering beneath my skin. He glanced at the bag on the vanity, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it was gone.

I didn't answer right away. I just stared at the bag, then at him. He knew what it meant. We both did. This was his currency, his way of saying, "I messed up again. Here's a distraction." And for years, I'd accepted it. Each time, a new bag, a new cut, a wider chasm.

He walked further into the room, his expensive shoes silent on the plush carpet. "You look pale. Didn't you sleep?" His brow furrowed, a practiced show of concern. It was a performance I' d seen countless times.

Sleep was a luxury I hadn't afforded myself in days. My head throbbed, a dull drumbeat against my temples. My stomach churned, a constant knot of nausea that had become my unwelcome companion. It wasn't just the lack of sleep; it was the burden of knowing. The weight of his latest transgression. The one he thought a new Birkin could erase.

I turned away from him, walking to the window. The city lights twinkled, indifferent to my private torment. "I ate some of that artisanal dark chocolate last night. It upset my stomach." It was a lie, a small, pathetic shield against the truth I wasn't ready to unleash. I had been craving something, anything, sweet enough to momentarily dull the bitter taste of reality.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching for my shoulder. "Cecily, you know I worry about your health. Dr. Evans said you need to watch your sugar intake. And that dark chocolate is full of it." His touch was light, almost tender, but I flinched away. His concern felt like another form of control, another chain. He knew I craved comfort, and he always found a way to deny it, even while offering the most extravagant material goods.

He withdrew his hand, a slight frown creasing his face. "I brought you something. A little something to make up for my… unexpected delay yesterday." He motioned towards the vanity. The Birkin. The ninety-ninth bag. He didn't even try to hide it anymore. The act was just part of the ritual now.

I looked at the bag again. A limited-edition Hermès Kelly, in a rare Himalayan Nilo crocodile. I knew the value, the waiting list, the exclusivity. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, a testament to unreachable luxury. And it meant absolutely nothing to me. Just another item in a growing collection of substitutes for love, for respect, for loyalty.